


Sympathy for the Devil

by justayellowumbrella



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Season 1
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-16
Updated: 2016-04-01
Packaged: 2018-05-21 01:40:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 17,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6033420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justayellowumbrella/pseuds/justayellowumbrella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Mr. Reese." "Finch." "Where are you?" He was at a safe house. It was ironic, really. He listened to the muffled sounds of struggle behind him and closed the door. </p><p>Or, the one where Finch and Reese balance trust and secrets. Set in Season 1.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [Sympathy for the Devil(翻译/Translation)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9230333) by [sandunder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sandunder/pseuds/sandunder)



"I figured you'd be more of an abstract kind of guy, Harold."

Finch started at the unexpected voice. Out of a trance. He lifted his gaze from the magazine's cover art.

"Mr. Reese..."

"Finch." A curious look. Reese set a styrofoam cup a safe distance from the desk's mess of keyboards and slipped the publication from his boss's hand.

_The Boroughs Magazine._

Two heavily inked figures under an watercolor umbrella stood on its front page, pochade style.

Reese's eyes wandered from the colorful sketch to the warning look on the face of his employer.

A second for scrutiny. He handed it back to the outstretched palm.

"Thank you." Finch's tone was clipped as he slid the magazine to the side of the table, cover down. He reached for the cup of tea and sent a pointed look in the younger man's direction. Outside, an ambulance wailed its passing. "You're early, Mr. Reese."

Reese sank into a chair and took a slow sip from his coffee. "Just trying to impress my boss."

Truth was, he had been awake since three. Too little action with their recent numbers-a good thing-but too much time on his own.

Too much time in his head.

At Finch's clearly unimpressed expression, he twisted back to look at the glass board in front of the window. At its center was a photo he didn't recognize.

"New number," Finch said, following his gaze. He turned stiffly. "Monica Lewis. Physical therapist at St. Luke's."

Reese studied the picture as Finch typed a short line of code.

Dark hair. Earnest eyes, cautious smile. Pretty.

"What do we know about Monica?"

"No outstanding debts… no criminal history. Volunteers her time, goes to church." There was little to go on. Not even a parking ticket.

"She sounds nice, Finch." Reese leaned his weight back in his chair. It creaked faintly.

"She does..." Slowly.

"Should we make you an appointment?"

"Already done," came the dry response. Finch looked up from the monitor, sensing the amusement behind Reese's even toned words. "Frankly I'd enjoy sending _you_ for some therapy... I'm just not certain this is the appropriate venue."

Reese hid a small smile, a tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth.

"I'll check out her apartment then." He swiveled in his chair to catch Finch's eye. "While you get… realigned?"

Oh, he was going to enjoy this.

A quirk of an eyebrow. "Do be careful, Mr. Reese."

Reese kept his expression neutral. "Always." He unfolded himself from the chair, knowing full well Finch wasn't referring to the recon.

* * *

The satellite clinic was small, mutely decorated. There had been only one other patient in the waiting room when he arrived.

The staff had been friendly, courteous.

No tensions that he could note behind the plexiglass divide.

"Spinal fusion?"

Finch shifted, stiffly. Gave Monica a thin smile. "Yes... a few years back."

They stood in a open room, a range of exercise equipment and machines in the back, several padded tables, a barre stretching along the far wall.

He eyed the nearby weights and yoga mats, the stability balls. The odd pulley system to their left.

He had needed a distraction, what better way than to torture himself physically for a change.

If nothing else, he had been happy to note the lack of inspirational posters touting one-liners about Discipline and Strength and the like.

"Looks like C3 through C5 or so, if I had to guess. Judging by your range of motion." Monica watched him with a keen eye. "Molly was pulling in your records."

"Exactly right." Finch pivoted stiffly, following her motion. "Car accident," he offered, before she could ask.

"You're lucky." She gave him a small, embarrassed smile at the word choice. "Many patients with injuries in that part of the cervical spine have a much greater loss of overall function." She motioned for him to walk, observing his gait. "Pain level?"

"Today's a pretty good day."

A good day was relative.

She smiled again, sympathetic. "On a scale of one to ten, what's your normal level of activity?"

In his ear, muffled: " _One… Maybe two_?"

"Five."

There was a disappointed tut over the line.

Mr. Reese would regret that.

"Excellent." Monica nodded, brushing a strand of loose hair behind her ear. She didn't seem to notice the firmness of his answer. "And had you done any physical therapy? After the accident?"

"Ah. Shortly after, yes, but I'm afraid I didn't keep up with it." Finch pressed his lips into a thin line. "I have a demanding work schedule."

"What is it you do again?"

"I work with numbers. Accounting mostly."

Monica nodded. She had pulled a clipboard from one of the padded tables.

He could see her thought process. Desk job, slave to work, unmotivated. He turned again, looking one more time around the modern day torture chamber.

What on earth was that contraption with the weights and slings?

"The ideal program for you would have a combination of stretching, strengthening, and aerobic conditioning." She looked up, following his gaze. "I know that sounds scary."

It did.

And he were wishing he had popped some extra pills that morning.

She continued. "Ideally we want to start working on two main things. Rotation… moving the head side-to-side, and flexion… moving the head backward. Sound good?"

Sounded painful.

"Sounds good," he said. A weak smile.

He was already beginning to regret not having Reese feign a limp.

Monica flipped through the chart and then set it down.

"Really it comes down to a long-term, self-directed approach." Her words were firm but her expression was encouraging. "I can help, but at the end of the day it's up to you to make the change."

" _You should listen to the pretty lady, Harold_."

Finch rolled his eyes to the ceiling as Monica turned away. He should have at least adopted a cane for his persona.

He could have used it on a certain associate later.

"Okay," Monica said brightly. She turned back, flipping a page on her clipboard. "Enough pep talk. Let's see what your baseline is."

* * *

Back at the library, five cartons of takeout and two dead ends.

A clicking keyboard. An occasional horn from the street.

"Maybe a patient couldn't handle her ruthless six-week program."

The typing paused.

"I don't _have_ to feed you, Mr. Reese."

Reese twirled his chopsticks around a clump of lo mein. "You like feeding me."

An arched eyebrow. Finch picked through his own food, absently clicking at the keyboard. Hiding a grimace when Reese wasn't looking.

He was feeling every bone and muscle in his body. And not in the happy, endorphins toting way. Learning his baseline had been a brief lesson in modern torture.

And all for naught, apparently. Monica Lewis seemed friendly… well-liked by her staff. The small video feed he had bugged the clinic with hadn't offered any further enlightenment.

They were missing something. Something not at work.

"Apartment in Brooklyn didn't come up with much." Reese leaned back in his chair, glanced from Monica's photo to the computers. Finch's expression was pinched; he wasn't happy. "Married… one kid. A friendly Labrador."

All things Finch probably knew.

He stretched his legs out, the bottom of his shoes pressed against the table's legs. Picked out a single piece of shrimp from his takeout carton, chewing slowly.

When all else failed there was only one option.

Follow the number everywhere.

He glanced at his watch. Nearing six. "She finishes work soon?"

A short burst of typing. Finch was in the clinic's computer. "Yes," he confirmed. "Her last patient just arrived."

Finch considered deleting his next appointment from the system.

Reese was watching. He minimized the screen and turned in his chair.

"If Mrs. Lewis's day job didn't expose a threat, something in her personal life must have given the Machine a reason to flag her number."

Reese picked out another shrimp, popping it in his mouth. "What do we know about the husband?"

"Former army… Works at the recruiting office." Finch typed for a second, tilting his head. "Happy facade on the social networking sites." He turned the screen slightly so that Reese could see the image of a smiling Mr. and Mrs. Lewis, cheek-to-cheek.

Reese raised an eyebrow. "I don't know, Finch. Monica seems pretty happy. Maybe your machine just wanted you back in therapy."

"John."

"I'm just saying." Reese traded out his lo mein for a carton of General Tso's, unfazed by his employer's tone. "It might be good for you." He picked out a piece of chicken. "Getting out... Exercising... Socializing…"

Finch hummed something under his breath. Glanced to the edge of the magazine now hidden in the midst of takeout cartons. He leaned back in his chair.

It wouldn't be the first time the Machine had flagged a number for an alternative objective.

"Finch?"

He forced his train of thought back. Spoke before the questioning look on Reese's face went any further.

"If you're quite finished concerning yourself with my health and social life?"

The look on Reese's face was one of practiced innocence.

"I'll dig a little deeper on Mr. Lewis." Finch tapped a few lines on the keyboard. Bank records okay. Mortgage in good standing. While Reese was tailing Mrs. Lewis, perhaps he could find something of interest. He looked up. "As we both know, ex-soldier types can be a little… difficult."

"Difficult?"

"You prefer another word?"

A smile. Reese pushed the half-eaten carton of takeout onto the desk and got to his feet. He'd need the time to make it uptown.

"Don't forget to stretch, Harold."

Repeating overheard instructions from the physical therapist. He was making a quick retreat, tucking a pistol into his belt.

The metal gate jangled at his departure.

Finch pushed his own food back on the desk, rubbing his thumbs against his temples. The quiet settled around him.

A fluttering, cooing of pigeons that had taken up residence in the front fire escape.

A honk from the corner. Then, five seconds of silence.

Finch closed his eyes.

Saw a watercolor umbrella.

He opened his eyes and reached out, sliding the magazine slowly toward himself.

Traced the lines of the two figures. The cobblestone path.

He let out a slow breath. Septembers were hard.

She clearly felt the same.


	2. Chapter 2

By seven the sun was just beginning to set.

They rode the subway for a few stops. Transferred at 96th.

Above ground, Reese trailed behind her, didn't bother keeping much of a distance. She stopped at a grocery store a few blocks from home.

Bought chicken. A half gallon of milk.

On line behind her, he bought a bottle of water and bluejacked her phone.

He began to hang back as they continued down the road, crossed over to the other side of the street as they neared the block she resided on.

By the time she was making her way up the steps to the brownstone, the exchange with the grocery checkout clerk had been her only social interaction.

Reese slipped into a building across the street and made his way up to a spot on the roof he had scoped out earlier.

It was a limited vantage point, but it would do. He leaned against the ledge, pulled out a small telescope.

Twenty minutes ticked by. She was making dinner. A little boy occasionally sprinted across the window's view.

Another half hour. Reese rubbed a hand down his face, across his eyes. She and the boy were doing some kind of silly dance now. He was giggling. Twirling.

What is the threat to you, Monica?

A gentle breeze fluttered against his suit jacket. He glanced at his phone, dialed a number and tapped his earpiece.

" _Yeah."_

"Evening, Lionel," he said, his voice a smooth contrast to the irritated gruffness of Fusco's.

" _What do you want?"_

Reese shifted his weight against the edge of the wall, kept his eyes trained across the street. "I'm fine, thank you. How's our research project?"

" _You mean_ your _research project? I have a day job, you know."_

"Nothing then?" Reese brought the scope back up to his eye. "I'm disappointed, Lionel. Thought you were a detective."

There was something muttered on the other end of the line.

Reese straightened. A man was going up the front steps of the brownstone. He squinted slightly, snapped a photo through the lens. Around his height, average build. He had a key.

Mr. Lewis.

"Lionel?"

" _What."_

"You've got nothing?" He leaned against the wall again, kept the disappointment from his voice. Inside the home, he watched the husband come up behind the wife at the stove, kiss the side of her neck. She smiled at him, stirring a pot.

" _I don't see your efforts getting you anywhere."_

"I have a day job, you know."

A scoff. " _You ever think about just, you know, talking to him?_ "

Talking to him. Yes, Finch was so keen on giving out personal information when asked. Or offering it at all, ever.

"Thanks for nothing, Lionel. I'll be in touch." Reese ended the call.

Inside the brownstone he watched as the family of three sat down to dinner. The view was slightly obstructed.

He studied them, the perfect little picture they created. Activated the mic over the bluejack to listen in.

Soccer practice, whose turn it was to do the dishes. A distant cousin's wedding invitation upstate. He pressed the ball of his foot against the low wall of the ledge, stretching his calf muscle. One leg and then the next, keeping his eyes trained across the street.

The little one was talking now, through a fit of giggles. About a fish named Lucy in his classroom at school.

Reese rubbed a hand down his face, feeling tired. Alone.

It could be a long night.

* * *

Washington Square Park, in the early evening, had its own sense of tranquility.

A young couple, hands twisted together under a lamp post in the quiet of the sunset. A lone bicycle whooshed as it sped by and then, the night was still.

The light in the fountain had just come on when Finch caught sight of her walking home. He stiffened on the park bench, hands tightening on the novel he wasn't really reading.

His breath always caught at the first glimpse.

She walked leisurely, not in any rush. It was the perfect night for that. The late summer temperatures, just the hint of a breeze. He watched as she tucked a strand of red hair behind her ear. Got her mail from the box at the door.

A copy of the magazine unfolded in her hands, the other envelopes it had been wrapped around tucked beneath. Grace paused, staring at the cover.

Seconds floated by and then she was tucking all the mail away, the magazine bearing her painting folded back around the envelopes as she fumbled for her key. Unlocked the door.

And she was out of sight.

When he watched her like this, from a distance, every moment seemed to lack dimension. He felt like a ghost.

He sat there awhile, staring across the expanse of the park.

A jogger passed. From behind him, a high pitched bark from the dog run.

It grew darker.

" _Finch?"_

The soft voice in his ear brought him back.

"Mr. Reese." Finch collected his things, shifting his weight forward on the bench. He got to his feet stiffly.

" _Looks like the kid isn't the husband_ 's. _Monica just got a voicemail and a text from an ex."_ A rustling, the sound of something scraping. " _Jeremy Collins._ "

Finch made his way from the park, the awkwardness of his gait feeling more pronounced than usual.

" _Jeremy wants to see his son... or else. I'll get an eye on him."_

Finch headed uptown. Moving under the marble arch at the north end of the park.

"What do we know about Jeremy?"

" _Was hoping you'd tell me._ " There was a hesitation on the other end of the line. Then, " _Where are you?_ "

"I had to run an errand."

" _What errand_?"

"A personal one, Mr. Reese."

There was a longer pause.

" _Could use you on the_ _case, Finch._ " A hint of annoyance was woven into the words.

"I'll be be back momentarily." Finch flagged down a cab, abandoning his walk, the nice night. "Where are you now?"

There was no answer, but he could hear Reese's breathing. He was on the move.

"Mr. Reese?"

" _Running a personal errand_."

"John." It came out sharply. A yellow taxi pulled up, he stepped off the curb.

The com was silent to the admonishment.

"John."

" _Lemme know when you're back._ "

The connection broke.

Finch slid into the backseat of the cab, gave a known restaurant's address. He'd be dropped just a block from the Library.

He closed his eyes as the vehicle pulled into traffic.

* * *

In a neighboring area of Brooklyn, Jeremy Collins wasn't home.

The locks were a joke; Reese popped them easily, glancing down the street before entering the apartment.

He kept the lights off in the main room, letting his eyes adjust.

A leather sectional, a large television. A laptop at the desk in the back corner of the room.

He slipped a thumb drive into the computer's open USB, pocketed it when the program completed.

There were work boots in the hall closet, multiple pairs. Construction, maybe.

He peeked in the bathroom. One toothbrush.

In the bedroom, some clothes on the floor. An unmade bed.

The nightstand held a small framed photo. He picked it up, examining it closer.

A man, presumably Jeremy, sitting next to Monica Lewis. A small dark haired toddler was balanced between their knees.

He set it back gently. Slipped open the nightstand drawer.

A bottle of pills. A small pistol.

He picked up the gun, pulled out the magazine and cocked the slide. Loaded. He reloaded it, set it back.

_Why the gun, Jeremy?_

He squatted down, peered under the bed. Clear.

Checked the bedroom closets, found nothing unusual.

He was about to close up shop when his phone buzzed. He tapped the com in his ear.

"Finch." Reese opened the refrigerator, the freezer.

" _Jeremy Collins. Works at the shipyard… Had a minor issue with breaking and entering about three years back."_

"Nice of you to join the case, Harold."

The comment was ignored. " _Armed robbery conviction landed him some time… shortened for good behavior."_ A pause. The sound of typing. " _He's been out on parole for six months_."

"Having a loaded .45 in his nightstand is probably not in his best favor."

" _I'd suspect not._ "

Reese opened the pantry. Cereal and spaghetti.

" _It appears that Jeremy works a couple nights a week at a bar just a few blocks west of his apartment."_

Reese perked up at the lead.

"I'll check it out."

* * *

 Duff's was a busy little hole. A line of crowded dartboards, a single pool table manned by regulars in the back.

Reese scanned the dimly lit room, realizing quickly that his suit stood out in the crowd of jeans and collarless shirts.

Good start.

He signaled for a beer as he sat at one of the stools at the side of the bar. From there it was a clear view of the room, the back exit.

His phone buzzed.

Glancing at it, another text from Jeremy to Monica's phone: _You'll be sorry._

He took a swallow of his drink, scanned the crowd.

In the back, carrying in a case of Budweiser with one arm. Jeremy from the photo. A phone in his other hand.

Reese took another drink, did a quick clone of his number.

A slow fifteen minutes ticked by. He nursed the beer. Absently picked at its label, pretended to watch the Knicks game highlights on the television above the bar.

Jeremy seemed to work hard. No more texts, no response from Monica. Gruff politeness with the other bartender, familiar with quite a few patrons.

"Hey, handsome."

Reese turned his head.

The blonde smiled as she slipped onto the stool next to him, looked him up and down. "Come here often?"

She couldn't have been more than eighteen.

He arched a brow over a sip of beer. "Isn't it a school night?"

She glared at him, but it was playful.

"Don't mind her." From behind the bar. Jeremy. Giving her a look. "Go home, Teeny. It is a school night."

She ignored him. "Tina," she introduced, smiling at Reese.

"Another?" Meant to interrupt. Jeremy motioned to the almost empty beer bottle at Reese's hand.

Reese nodded, gave a smile. "Thanks."

The pop of the beer cap, a fresh bottle slid toward him. He could hear the hissed words.

"Tee, go home. It's late."

"Relax, Jeremy."

"Tina."

She glared at him. Looked back at Reese. "Don't mind my brother. He's a buzz kill."

"He's got a point." Reese took a swig of the new beer. Nice and cold. He gave her an amused smile. "It is late."

Jeremy looked surprised- apparently the men on the end of his sister's charms were not so often on his side.

Tina was equally thrown off. And unimpressed. With a huff, she slid off the barstool. She headed to the back, along the wall of darts.

Reese lifted his gaze back to the television, feigning disinterest.

"Thanks, man."

He flicked his eyes back.

Jeremy gave him a nod. "For, uh, not engaging."

A twitch of a smile. "No worries."

The exchange was over, Jeremy on the other side of the bar. Shots for a couple of friends.

Two beers in. He was ready to call it. Took his phone above the bar top in the semblance of checking emails. Clicked a photo of Jeremy, another of Tina.

Sent them to Finch.

A text came from Monica over Jeremy's phone: _I can't do this._

Jeremy: _Let's meet._

No response.

Jeremy, again: _Please._

Nothing.

There was a commotion, over by the darts. He slipped his phone back in a pocket, rose from his seat.

Approached slowly. The men's room was along the same well, he aimed in that direction.

Jeremy's sister, backed into the corner by some meathead. Three of his buddies circled around, laughing. Her face flushed, she was trying to get away.

"Your brother owes me," the guy was saying. His hair was short, shaved close to the scalp. He leaned in, she twisted her head away.

Reese knocked shoulders with one of them. Softly: "Hey, fellas, have any of you seen the-oh hey, Tina."

Her eyes flashed at him.

"Nice suit." The guy he'd bumped into gave him a push back. "Get lost."

Reese ignored him, stepping forward. Blocked by another.

"Easy, fellas." He held up his hands.

There was a nod from the beefy man detaining the girl and he found himself suddenly shoved against the wall, restrained by two equally beefed up sidekicks.

He sighed.

"What the hell's your problem?" The meathead had released Tina, he was focused on Reese now. Moving closer, in his face. The smell of whiskey.

Calmly. "No problem. I just don't think she's interested."

The man stared at him, radiating annoyance. Swung back a clenched fist.

Reese's head knocked back with the punch. It landed just above his jaw, the taste of copper in his mouth.

"Mind your own business." Turning away, done with him, the meathead's attention back to Tina.

" _Stop_." Her voice was strained.

Reese closed his eyes and then moved.

Seconds. The two holding him back found their heads cracked together, faces bloodied from the impact.

Reese straightened up. Unruffled. He wiped his mouth absently, hand coming away with a trace of blood.

The man was back on Tina, his hands on her upper arms, pressing her into the corner.

Reese stepped forward. The third friend elbowed him out, taking a swing. He ducked, slammed the flat of his palm under the guy's chin.

He went down.

A voice from behind.

"Mike, what the hell?"

Jeremy.

The meathead, Mike, released Tina. Gave a leer of a smile to Jeremy.

"Hey, Jeremy… since you can't pay your debts on time, I thought I'd charge some interest."

Tina shoved her hands against him, still blocked into the corner. He didn't budge.

Jeremy moved forward, livid now. His hands were clenched, in a second he was yanking Mike back by the collar, swinging him around.

Hissed: "I told you- I don't owe you anything."

Mike's back hit the wall between two dartboards.

Tina slipped away.

Jeremy hissed something else, shoving him again.

Mike chuckled, unfazed.

His three buddies had recovered and Reese moved forward, giving the one about to swing another punch a warning look.

Jeremy and Mike were suddenly slamming past. A shout from another patron as they knocked into a misplaced barstool, a table with empty pint glasses.

The sound of glass breaking. Thuds.

Blows exchanged and Reese watched, hesitated. The girl was unharmed.

This was… irrelevant?

Mike was reaching into his jacket.

Reese reacted. He moved between them, a blow glancing his side, slammed a elbow into Mike's stomach. The man doubled over, a groan.

Frisking the jacket. Pulling out the revolver.

Reese gave it an unimpressed look. "Old school, huh?" He tucked it into the small of his back, next to his own firearm.

Jeremy eyed him, eyes wild, adrenaline pumping. Mike, just straightening up, took an aggressive step forward.

Enough.

Reese pulled out a badge. "Detective Stills."

Both stared at him. What the hell kind of cop-

The other three had bolted.

"I suggest you follow your friends," Reese said, releasing his hold on Mike's jacket. Giving a shove.

Jeremy was breathing heavily, still wired up. Warily watching Reese, probably nervous about his parole.

No sign of Tina.

"Thanks?" Jeremy took a step back. The crowd at the pool table had lost interest, a few looked at Reese with disdain.

New faces, especially those of cops, were not a welcome sight.

So much for staying under the radar, Reese.

He slipped out the side exit, tapped his ear com.

"Looks like Jeremy's got a temper, Finch."

There was silence on the line.

"Finch?" Moving down the street, a quick glance over his shoulder.

In his ear: " _Was that necessary, Mr. Reese?"_

Reese paused. He felt a tiny flutter of disappointment at the unenthused tone of his employer.

He crossed the street, stepping off the curb. One more check on Monica, but surely Jeremy would be keeping his distance tonight.

He ignored the question. "Anything on your end?"

Another long pause. Then, " _It's late, Mr. Reese_."

He frowned. Glanced at his watch. Just past midnight.

Compared to many of their cases, it wasn't late.

"Sorry the numbers are such an inconvenience, Finch."

He didn't bother to hide the irritation in his tone. Ended the connection before he could hear Finch's response.


	3. Chapter 3

In the late morning, an empty library.

Reese sank into Finch's chair, staring at the computer screens, the blinking cursor. Scanning the tabletop.

He slipped the magazine out from the pile of books and swung his feet onto the desk, shifting his weight back into the chair.

He flipped through some pages - real estate, dining and nightlife, community news- back to the cover.

Finch had never gotten past the cover.

Studying it. There was a melancholy in the swirls of color, the trace of the figures in the scene.

He knew Finch liked art. Had been dragged to a museum or two under the pretense of fieldwork. He was well aware of the appreciation his boss held for different mediums.

Still, he didn't quite grasp why the artwork on the cover would captivate Finch's attention so fully.

He set the magazine back. Took a sip of his lukewarm coffee. A creak of the chair as he shifted his weight and looked to the glass board.

Taped next to Monica's smiling picture were the solemn faces of Mr. Lewis and Jeremy Collins.

All three were at work. He leaned his head back, drumming his fingers on the armrest of the chair.

"Finch?"

A few seconds passed.

The breathing on the other end of the line was heavy. " _Little_." A breath. " _Busy_."

A faint smile played on Reese's lips.

So Finch did show up to his second appointment.

"How's Monica?"

Silence. The muffled sound of a woman's voice explaining the intricacies of some type of workout equipment.

Finch muttered a response when it was quiet again.

In amusement: "She's tough, Harold."

" _John."_ His name was spoken in an exhaled breath.

"Mm."

" _I can think of work for you if you're finding yourself unoccupied_."

Reese raised his eyebrows and disconnected the call.

* * *

Late summer afternoons stretched peacefully in the city. The park hummed with the gentle rustle of a warm breeze in the sycamores and the sound of chirping birds.

Life was okay.

Fusco took a sip of his soft drink through a straw, a silent cheer on his lips at the slapping sound of the hockey puck and the whoosh it made when it hit the net.

Lee was getting good.

Life was definitely okay when it was a free weekend afternoon with your kid.

"Hello, Lionel."

He felt the presence at his shoulder at the same time he heard the soft greeting.

Fusco turned his head. An irritated look. "Quit doing that."

A blank look. "Doing what?"

Fusco shook his head. Eyes back to the blacktopped play area. "What do you want, sunshine?"

Over the detective's shoulder Reese watched the kids play hockey, easily picked Fusco's son out of the scrawny group of eight and nine-year-olds.

He watched the game a moment, quiet.

Fusco took another drink through the straw.

Reese glanced at him, could see the paternal pride wash over his face when the kid made another successful slapshot.

He wondered what that was like.

"You have what I needed?" he said finally.

"In the car."

"Okay." He shifted to move and Fusco gave him a look.

"Car's locked, genius."

"Okay," Reese repeated. He moved away.

"You're welcome," Fusco muttered. Under his breath, eyes back to the game.

Dirty cop. Good cop. Private investigator. It was starting to get exhausting.

He shook his head. Today, he'd focus on just one title.

As if reading his mind, Lee spun around, mid-run, and gave him a grin.

* * *

"Do you have children?"

Session finished, Finch's eyes had surveyed the photos on Monica's desk. Photos of a dark-haired son, the husband. A wedding picture, Mr. Lewis in army blues. He turned, much to the protest of his newly challenged muscles.

A wistful smile. "No, no children. "

"Married?" At his pause he could tell Monica regretted the question, she was giving him an apologetic look. Glancing at his clearly ringless left hand. "I'm sorry-"

"It's alright." He forced another vague smile. "Never married, no."

She was regretting the question even more, judging by the look. Perhaps putting together the accident and the lack of a ring.

Perhaps not.

Finch pushed back at the hollowed feeling in his chest, disappointed at the fleeting resolve the morning's session had given him.

It just wasn't enough.

He forced it somewhere deeper, reached for the wedding photo while Monica unclipped some photocopied sheets from her binder of torture.

"How long have you been married?"

"Ah, three years." Monica still appeared uncomfortable. Her phone beeped, she glanced at it absently. Looked up, a shadowed expression on her face. "It's not all sunshine and roses."

There was a bitterness in her tone that was new. Whether it were true or for his sake-in that way you convince someone without that it wasn't so great with-he didn't know.

He glanced at his own phone, reading the cloned message.

Jeremy: _7pm. Meet me or I come to you. Your choice._

She had pressed a smile, was holding out the sheets of paper. He noted the darkness under her eyes.

"If you do these exercises twice a day, you should start feeling a big difference."

Finch slipped his phone away. Took the pages from her.

"Thank you."

"See you next week."

Exiting the clinic, his phone vibrated. He looked down at the message.

Monica had finally agreed.

Finch made his way down the block, slowed by the pain of his gait. He opened the line.

"Mr. Reese?"

The response in his ear was muffled. Unintelligible.

"John?"

" _Yes_." Clear now.

Curiously. "What are you doing?"

A pause. " _Nothing_."

Finch flagged a cab, stepping off the curb stiffly. Reese's _nothing's,_ particularly those spoken after such a hesitation, were bound to be something amusing or maddening.

All dependent on the day.

A cab pulled up.

"7pm," Finch said. He reached for the door handle.

"I saw," came the response. There was an exhaled breath. "I'll be on it."

Finch disconnected, gave the cabbie his direction.

* * *

" _What are you doing?"_

Reese had hesitated. Bowing his head, pulling his motorcycle helmet back on. Finch had almost sounded amused.

"Nothing," he said finally, for lack of a better response.

Nothing?

He kicked himself. Clever, Reese.

He lifted his gaze, watched Finch step toward a cab.

" _7pm_."

Back to business, of course. No time for small talk when you have secret appointments. Mystery errands.

"I saw," Reese said. He straddled the Ducati and leaned forward in the seat, ready to pop back the kickstand. Resisted the urge to rev the engine.

Thought about asking Finch where he was going, but couldn't bring himself to.

He let out a breath.

"I'll be on it."

Finch disconnected and he revved the engine a little harder than necessary, pulling out from the curb to follow.

* * *

The Maurizio Cattelan exhibit at the Guggenheim was an odd display. A sort of morbid chandelier of giant proportion, dangling in the heart of the museum's rotunda.

The skylight above illuminated the strange conglomerate. Taxidermied horses, a dinosaur skeleton, wax-figures of children hanging by their necks.

Finch was staring at the figure of Pope John Paul II being struck by a meteor when he saw her.

Stiffening, he paused in his slow ascent up the spiral of the museum's center. Stared through the nightmarish disorder of the collection, seeing only her.

She was beautiful.

The empty perimeter of the museum, void of any art, created a stark white backdrop to her figure.

It was wrong, he knew, to do this. A temporary balm.

Paper stitches that would only tear out, reopening the wounds.

She moved slowly, taking in the works one-by-one. He was desperate to know her thoughts, what that slight furrow to her brow meant.

It was wrong, he knew. It wasn't fair to her.

It wasn't right.

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, so gently, and he didn't care.

He didn't care.

* * *

"You don't have a say in it, Jeremy." Monica's voice sounded weary.

"He's _my_ son. I have a say in who he sees. Who _raises_ him."

She turned from him, wanting to walk away, but Jeremy grabbed her arm. Yanked her around.

"Let go," she protested. Her eyes skirted around, not wanting a scene.

"I can take you to court, Monica." The words were low, growled. He twisted her arm, pushing her against the outside wall of the clinic.

A passerby gave a glance, kept walking.

"Let go," she repeated.

"Monica-"

"You're _hurting_ me."

"We can be a family again."

"Jeremy-"

"I've changed, Monica." He sounded desperate now. "I can make you happy. He can't. You know that."

"We were never a family-"

He slapped the wall next to her and Monica flinched.

"Is there a problem?"

Jeremy stared as Reese stepped between them. Suspicious. "You're the guy from last night. Detective…?"

Ignoring him. "Monica. Are you okay?"

"How do you know my-"

Jeremy pulled his arm, driving him away from her. "Were you following me?"

"Let's take a walk." Reese forced a smile. It was awkward, asymmetric. _Come on._

Monica gave him a confused look. "Who are you?"

"I have reason to believe you're in danger," he murmured.

Her confusion deepened, she glanced at Jeremy, back to Reese. "What?"

Softly. "You should go home."

" _Hey_." Jeremy stepped forward, coming between them. Protective. "What are you telling her?"

"C'mon," Reese said, grabbing his elbow. Forcing his arm. A whisper. "Does your parole officer know about the unregistered .45?"

Jeremy stared. "You're no cop."

"Keep walking."

Jeremy glanced back over his shoulder as Reese prodded him forward, pushed him around the corner.

The smell of roasting nuts from the vendor at the curb.

"Look," he started. "I don't know who you are. Or what you want-"

"I want you to leave your ex alone."

"What?" Jeremy stopped walking. Spinning around, a glare. "Look, man, this is my _family_."

"She doesn't seem to think so."

"This isn't your business. You don't even…" Jeremy stopped himself. Wasn't even sure why he was bothering with this stranger.

Evenly. "I know about the robbery. The battery charges."

"How do you…" Jeremy was shaking his head.

Reese raised his eyebrows.

"I've changed," Jeremy said. "That guy she's with? She deserves better."

"And you'll give her better?"

He had once asked himself the same question.

Jeremy stared at him. "You don't even know me."

Reese thought of what he had read in the background checks Fusco had supplied.

Thought of Jeremy's little sister at the bar.

Jeremy continued. "Do you know what it's like?" He shook his head again. "Knowing he's with her every day?"

The sidewalk is crowded now. A delivery bike speeds by through the crosswalk. A woman is bending over her toddler as it screams and twists away.

There's a horn honking, the sound of a vehicle coming to an abrupt stop.

A group of co-eds moved through them and Reese knew he should have seen it coming. Knew the moment Jeremy shot him a look and twisted himself away.

Using the flock of bystanders as a shield. Jeremy didn't look back, jogged across the street without a glance to the traffic signal. A stream of vehicles prevented an immediate pursuit.

There was a subway entrance and he was down it before Reese hit the curb.

Shit.

He gave it somewhat of an effort, racing down the steps, glancing through the mass of faces in the crowd.

The screeching departure of a train beyond the click-click-click of the turnstiles.

The rumbling arrival of another, a muffled recording piped through the loudspeakers to announce it.

Jeremy was gone.

Back at street level, the sky was dark. There was a chill in the air, the kind that hinted at summer's passing.

Reese let out a breath, scrubbed a hand down his face.

An hour later, he was repeating the motion.

Red and blue lights pulsed, flickering up and down Monica's block.

Dismounting the motorcycle, stepping forward and then circling back.

"Finch?" he tried.

For all he knew, Finch was still staring at that mess of an art display that looked like someone's nightmare.

"Finch."

" _Mr. Reese_."

The faint sound of typing.

He let out a breath.

"I think I made a mistake."


	4. Chapter 4

Joss Carter loathed cases like this.

She surveyed the kitchen, the small family room.

A child's artwork papered the refrigerator door. Action figures abandoned on the carpet.

A crooked wall hanging, an overturned chair. Dinner still on the table.

In the hallway, she bumped into a lanky figure. He caught her arm. Looked surprised to see her.

"Carter."

"John. What are you-" Carter stopped herself. Why did she even bother. Gave him a look.

He was scanning the main area just as she had, took a step back into the hallway when two other officers popped in the front door. The red and blue of the police lights flashed across the room.

He turned back to her, shadows accenting his face. A question.

"Neighbors called in a domestic disturbance."

"Thought you worked homicide, Joss."

"Her husband's connected to an earlier case of mine."

He didn't ask, stayed hovered in the hallway.

She eyed him. "And you?"

"Checking up on Monica."

Carter nodded slowly. She leaned her shoulder against the other wall. "You gonna tell me how you know about Monica Lewis?"

A half smile from Reese, a little less playful than usual. _No._

"Didn't think so."

"Where is she?"

She sighed. "At the station again."

"Again," he repeated.

"Yeah, again. This isn't the first time, and it won't be the last. Every time she defends him, she just strengthens his story. One of these times..."

Carter trailed off.

It was a homicide in the making.

"She never presses charges." Carter didn't understand it, wouldn't pretend to. She shook her head.

Even when Paul-

Her mouth was pressed into a frown, but the expression turned more curious at his darkened profile. "You okay?"

"Fine." Agitated. He turned from her, studied the hallway. "You said the husband."

"Anthony Lewis," she responded absently.

Reese stared at a broken vase on the floor, fresh flowers with broken stems. Felt a twinge in his gut.

If a neighbor hadn't-

Voices from the other room.

" _There was a boy_ -"

" _-probably ran away_ -"

Reese looked back to her.

"Her son," Carter explained. "They didn't find him in the apartment."

A flicker on his face, she wasn't sure if it were a product of the lighting or real.

"He run away before?"

"No." She saw a glint of something as he turned, reached out to lift the corner of his suit jacket. The badge, clipped along his belt. " _John._ "

Reese pulled away at the tone, the jacket falling back in place. A smile, unapologetic.

He slipped from the hallway, feeling Carter's eyes on him.

There was an angry buzz in his head. A hollow in his stomach.

He had missed it.

Checked the closet, under the bed. A toy trunk next to the window.

Wasting his time on Jeremy Collins.

Thought a minute, made his way back into the hallway.

He pushed the door open slowly, a slight squeak.

Voices were muffled in the other room.

The bathroom was small. Black and white hexagonal tiles, chipped in the corner. Toothpaste globs in the pedestal sink.

He waited.

Heard a soft hitched breath.

Squatted down, slowly pulling back the plastic shower curtain.

Brown eyes stared back at him. Wide and frightened.

"Hi," Reese whispered. "I'm a cop." He swallowed the lie as he rested on his heels. "Can you trust me?"

The boy couldn't have been more than five, legs pulled up to his chest, barefoot. Marvel superhero pajama pants.

Reese unclipped the badge from his belt, holding it in view. Kids liked badges.

The boy hesitated. A slow nod.

"My name is John."

There was a faint bruise on his upper arm, peeking out just slightly from the short sleeve of his white t-shirt. He unfolded his legs, cross-legged now. Looking small in the tub.

"What's your name?"

"Frankie." The boy had a soft scratchy voice.

"Let's find your mom, Frankie. Okay?"

Another slow nod, braver now.

Reese took him under the arms, easily lifting him from the tub.

Moving slowly, back in the hallway. He hesitated there, not moving into the main room. Cleared his throat.

She turned, mouth opening slightly. Then closing.

"Take him to his mom." Gently unfolding the skinny arms from around his neck, passing the child to Carter.

"John." She glanced in the direction of the voices.

"No CPS." The little boy's eyes were trained on him, he avoided them and stared at Carter.

She turned back, shook her head. "I can't-"

"Joss."

"John."

"They'll make it harder."

She held the stare.

"Fine," she finally muttered, shifting the child's weight on her hip. Shit.

She glanced at the commotion in the side room, strategizing her exit.

Turned back and swallowed another curse at the empty hallway.

* * *

In the back recesses of the Library, shadows branched between the stacks. The empty corridor of the abandoned reading room.

Finch reshelved a volume slowly. Running his fingers along worn spines as he settled the book back in place.

Reaching, just an inch too high, a shooting sensation made its way up his spine. He stiffened, holding the shelf in front of him, knuckles white.

It passed, mostly, and Finch moved forward again stiffly.

Another two volumes in the crook of his arm, he set them back in their respective places.

Slowly. Methodically.

Pausing as he passed the Special Collections shelf. It was evolving into a special collection of guns and ammunition. And grenades, it appeared.

Oh, Mr. Reese.

He shook his head.

A topic for some other day.

Back at his desk, Finch sat carefully. Back straight. He let his arms rest on the tabletop, clenched his fists.

Unclenched them, breathing out.

Breathing in.

He had brought a few volumes back from the stacks with him, he opened one absently. A finger tracing the text.

Staring at the blinking cursor in front of him. He closed the books, examined their bindings.

In light of the recent developments in Monica's case, receipt of a new number had been an almost welcome surprise.

It could afford them a certain division of labor.

He glanced back to the computer screen. Opened the com line.

"Mr. Reese."

A moment passed. Outside the window he heard the sound of tires running through puddles.

It must have rained.

"John?"

" _Finch_."

He could hear the distinctive background noise of a public place. The clinking of glassware.

Finch frowned. "Where are you?"

It wasn't his business, really. What Reese did outside the numbers.

He typed the digits with one hand, watched the lines fill in beneath them on the screen.

But it kind of was.

"Mr. Reese."

Reese was still silent on the other end.

"Nothing you can do tonight." Finch said it gently.

" _I know_ ," came the mild tone. The sound of an exhale. " _It's late, Finch_."

Finch wasn't sure if Reese meant it or was pushing petulance in return for the previous evening.

He let it go.

" _And Harold?_ _If you're still at your desk you owe about six stretching routines_."

Finch felt a smile pull at his lips. "Good night, Mr. Reese."

* * *

_He's in a pantry. The smell of cinnamon. Cloves and other spices._

_He flinches at the thud. A shattering. His mother's muffled cry._

Reese shot up, gasping for breath. His fists were clenching the thin sheets.

He released the grip, shoved off the covering. Laying on the hard hotel bed, street noises drifting in the open window.

Heart pounding in his chest.

He sat up slowly. Let out a breath. Rubbed a hand down his face, feeling a slight spin.

Reese glanced at the digital display on the nightstand. Stared at the blank wall.

Two or three drinks hadn't been enough.


	5. Chapter 5

Reese was asleep in the chair, a book open across his lap. Feet resting on the desk, the keyboard pushed back to make room.

Finch eyed the careless slouch of the lanky body, a position his own spine hadn't experienced since youth. He cleared his throat.

Reese started awake. A jerk reflex, hand going to his belt. He dropped it, seeing Finch. Relaxing.

An unimpressed eyebrow.

"Harold," Reese said, and his voice was gravelly. Tired.

Finch eyed him. He gave a pointed look to the shoes on the tabletop, swatted the leg for measure at its slow response to drop.

Reese grunted something and rose slowly from the chair, closing the book and setting it atop the others.

"Am I not paying you enough for a bed, Mr. Reese?" Finch swept his hand along the tabletop, pulling the keyboard forward again as he sat. He sent a critical look at the younger man's rumpled appearance. "Or a change of clothes?"

Reese was sitting in the other chair now. He swiveled to face his employer. "My other suit is at the cleaners."

"All of them?"

"Maybe."

A stare. A tiny twitch at the corner of Reese's mouth.

"We have another number," Finch said, typing a quick line. Bringing back the information from the night before. At the look on Reese's face: "I realize that we're not quite finished with Monica's case."

"Not quite finished," Reese repeated. Finch had lovely euphemisms.

"Jack Simpson," Finch continued, turning back to the screen. He brought up several windows, including a photo of Jack. Verbally outlining what he had found.

Certified Public Accountant. Suspicious bank accounts. Best friend convicted of money laundering just one year prior.

He turned, feeling a twinge in his back. Reese was staring off. "Are you listening?"

"I'm listening." Reese met his eye, absently drummed his fingers on the table. "You should start with Simpson. Let me know what you find while I finish up with the Lewis family."

"I'm afraid you are the newest CPA at L&T Financial, Mr. Reese."

"Finch."

"Orientation is at ten… I suggest you stop at the drycleaners first."

" _Finch_."

"Mr. _Reese_." Finch matched his tone, hedging the argument. He slid a blackberry across the desk, releasing it with a tap. "I assume you know how to use that?"

Reese tilted his head, just slightly. The phone sat untouched. "What's your plan with Monica?"

"We have a session this afternoon."

The sound of honking from the street.

"The plan, Finch?"

The blue eyes locked on his and Finch spoke slowly. "We will … discuss her options."

Silence. Finch was ready to turn back to his screens.

"She won't leave him."

"Perhaps not." Finch saw the flicker, felt his own hesitation. "I admit, it's a sensitive case." Looking back to the computer screen, tapping out a quick string. He glanced at Reese, back to the screen. "These numbers used to come up often. Sometimes repeatedly."

It still bothered him, even now.

What bothered him even more-

He shifted his gaze. Reese was watching him.

"You didn't have me then."

Finch studied the passive expression. "No," he allowed. "I didn't have you."

Reese picked up the blackberry, handling it absently. He was looking off again, a hand rubbing the stubble on his cheek.

They both stared at Monica's photo on the board.

Finch leaned back, his mouth pressed into a thin line. "What would you have us do, Mr. Reese?"

"Take care of it." Matter-of-factly. Reese pocketed the phone and glanced at his watch, buttoned the front of his suit jacket as he stood.

He could use a coffee.

"Mr. Reese."

Reese said nothing. He was by the file cabinet, top drawer open. Drumming his fingers along its top.

"Focus on Simpson, John."

"Yes, Harold." Absently. It sounded like the type of _yes_ you would hand your nagging mother.

Selection chosen, tucking the metal at the small of his back. Reese turned, seeing his employer's frown.

He nodded toward the desk.

"Theirs is not to reason why, Harold," he said. A slight teasing lilt was back in his voice.

Finch tilted his head slightly at the parting words. Glanced at the topmost volume on the desk as the gate clattered closed.

Tennyson.

He lifted a brow, his gaze going back to the now vacant hallway.

* * *

The corner of the desk, the wood laminate beginning to peel away from the pressboard. Reese picked at it unconsciously as he waited in a small office, a rhythmic clicking.

Apparently new employees were not on the top of Jack Simpson's list.

He had taken the opportunity to copy the computer's contents onto a thumb drive, secure a bug on the ficus in the corner, sift through the file cabinet- had he relocked it?

He got up, tugged on the drawers to check. Locked.

He sat again, tugging at his tie now. He glanced at the bug he had planted. Waggled his fingers at it, made a face.

A weary sigh in his ear.

Thought so.

His fingers went back to the corner of the desk.

Click.

He couldn't stop thinking about Monica.

Click.

Or Jessica.

Click.

Or-

" _John_."

He stopped. Leaned back in the executive chair. There was a gnawing feeling in his chest.

"Yes, Finch."

A pause.

" _Do you know the origin of modern stocks?_ "

"No." Reese feigned a bored tone, but Finch continued.

" _The Dutch East India Company. Merchants were competing for trade in Asia during the early 1600s… They were given the power to take control of the spice trade_."

Reese hummed a bored groan.

Truthfully, he liked when Finch went on like this.

" _To raise money, the company sold shares of stock and paid dividends on them. Soon after, the Amsterdam Stock Exchange was born_."

There was silence on the line now, he could hear keys tapping.

"You're trying to distract me."

" _Is it working?_ "

"No."

Voices just outside. Reese straightened up as the door swung open.

"Jack Simpson." The number held out a handshake, firm and strong, as he got to his feet.

Reese introduced himself. The character he was playing that day.

He only had to look Jack in the eyes to know.

Not a victim.

* * *

Her wrist was braced, the black binding a stark contrast to her pale, long sleeve shirt.

Finch gave it a glance. A posed question on his face.

"Took a fall," she said. An embarrassed smile, turning her head away.

She was squatting down, moving the weights on a machine that wasn't in his practice.

Gently. "I think we both know that isn't true."

Monica paused. Stared at him a second, tried a smile, but faltered. "What?"

"I know about your husband," Finch said.

She stared.

"I can help you."

Again. "What?" Monica got to her feet. Shook her head. "I'm sorry… I-"

"You're not alone, Monica."

She swept a strand of hair back, and there was a slight bruise at her temple.

She was good, Finch realized. Good at hiding.

Pretending to be strong.

"I know you want to protect him."

Monica frowned. Warily. "Who are you?"

"Someone who can help you."

"My husband," she said slowly, "is a good man."

He tilted his head, just slightly.

"He's a good man. He's just, not the same…since he came back."

"I can help you."

"They're never the same." The tears on her face were sudden. Silent.

"Monica."

She turned away from him.

"Stop," she said. Her breath was obvious, in and out. Then, "I'm sorry. I think we're going to have to reschedule."

"Monica."

"Please." She had recovered. Was dry eyed, passive. Accustomed to putting on a facade. She forced a smile at him, and it was almost passable.

But any session was over - for either one of them.

He handed her his card.

"You're not alone," he repeated.

* * *

"Mr. Reese."

"Finch."

Reese slid into the booth, ordered a coffee from the attentive waitress. He eyed the classifieds under Finch's hand, clearly marked, trying to make sense of it before it was folded in half, covered by a menu.

Finch had kept his head bowed. He lifted his gaze, finally, a raised brow. Pen set to the side.

"Simpson's sleeping with his secretary," Reese said. His coffee came, he paused until the waitress was out of range. "His wife's a high powered lawyer. Big insurance policy. He has a hit on her."

"Well," Finch said. He sipped his tea. There was a plate on the table, unidentifiable crumbs. "That was quick."

"Mm. He'll get a surprise later."

Reese was eyeing the newspaper now under the menu. Under Finch's palm.

"Mr. Reese."

He looked up.

"Not everything is a puzzle piece."

Reese wrapped his hands around his coffee mug and leaned back in the booth.

Finch watched him.

"Have you eaten?" Finch pushed the menu forward, slipped the newspaper onto the seat next to him, out of sight.

A hesitation. He hadn't been invited, when he followed Finch here. "Are you leaving?"

"Does that affect your ability to eat?"

A look.

"I'm not going anywhere."

Reese opened the menu. He waited, scanning the diner specials, the all day breakfast options. He wasn't hungry. Then, "Monica?"

"She needs time."

He looked at Finch, frustration obvious. The menu closed.

"I was thinking, perhaps if we put her in touch with Detective Carter."

"They've met."

"Yes, but perhaps if Detective Carter knew the risk here. There are programs. For Monica and for Anthony. If Carter could push..."

"Those are a lot of _ifs_ , Finch."

"It's all we have."

Reese drummed his fingers across the menu.

"You ready, hon?"

He lifted his gaze. The smiling waitress.

"Just the coffee, thanks."

"Sure thing." She topped his mug off, a glance to Finch. He shook his head, pressing a smile.

Silence hung between them.

"We'll keep an eye on her," Finch said. Gently.

Reese nodded absently. He threw a line, looking out the window as he spoke. "I'll talk to Carter."

There was a buzzing sound and Finch looked down at his phone.

Reese watched him. The odd, half frown on his face. The tell as he slipped the phone back into his vest.

So much for not going anywhere.

Sliding stiffly from the booth. Finch pushed the menu forward again, tapping it gently. _Eat something._

"I'll call you, Mr. Reese."

Alone in the booth, Reese scrubbed his face with his hands.

He figured it could be simple, really, in the end.


	6. Chapter 6

Stopping by the clinic had been an afterthought. Finch had rescripted their conversation in his mind, allowing for certain variables, machinating a better outcome.

The one constant needed: he had expected to find Monica alone.

Finding Anthony Lewis towering over her, well, that was not in his script.

"I don't want you talking to him."

Finch froze at the deep voice, the way the words were growled.

"He's his dad, Anthony-"

The interruption was muffled, he heard her cry out. Finch hung in the doorway, uncertain of his next move.

He stared at the wall for four point seven seconds and then stepped awkwardly forward.

"Monica?"

Two sets of eyes spun at him. One in confusion, one in rage.

Lewis's eyes swept him up and down. "Who are you?"

Monica started, "Harold-"

They exchanged a glance.

"What was that look?" Lewis looked back and forth between them, the glare landing on Monica. "Who the hell is he?"

"A patient," she said gently.

Lewis shook his head. "Get lost, buddy. Patient hours are over."

It took everything in him, but Finch took a step forward again. "I just thought we might-"

"I said get lost." Lewis took a step forward too, towering over Finch now instead. He was large. Muscular. Clearly former military.

"I'm afraid I can't do that." Finch was surprised how steady his voice sounded. Lewis looked surprised. Then amused.

"Oh really? You need an assist?" Lewis pushed at him, enough to force him back into the doorway. "Get _lost_."

Finch hissed a breath as his back knocked into the frame of the door but kept his balance. They were turned away from him now, hushed growls from Lewis, Monica silent.

Until the muffled cry. He couldn't. For what it was worth, he couldn't just stand there.

"Might I suggest-"

It happened quickly. One second, Lewis had swung back to him, grabbing the lapels of his vest. Yanking him upright, back against the wall. The next, he was pushed backward, but not maliciously.

It was Lewis with the grunt. Needing to block the strike from a sudden violent figure.

A suited figure.

Reese.

It was one thing to be on the end of the com line-even then he often winced-but the exchange of blows first hand was an altogether different-

Monica.

Finch tore his eyes from the scuffle, stepping toward her.

She gripped the back of a chair, white-knuckled. There was a crash behind them and she winced, her eyes over his shoulder.

"Monica-"

She stared at him now, mouth slightly agape. Not without worry for Lewis. Shaking her head. "Harold-"

"It's alright." Gently. Hiding his own flustered thoughts. "We can help you."

"We?" Her voice sounded hoarse. There was sudden quiet, they were alone in the room now. Finch twisted to look at the doorway, empty, then landed his eyes back on her.

"Please," he said. "You deserve better. Your son-"

"My son," she exclaimed quickly. Her eyes darted to her watch, she shook her head. "I have to pick him up from his aftercare, I'm sorry, I just-" She stopped suddenly, staring behind him.

Finch turned to follow the look.

Reese. He looked no worse for wear, shirt rumpled only if one looked hard enough. No sign of the recent commotion in his demeanor. He hung back in the doorway, eyes on Monica. "Are you okay?"

She nodded slowly. Pulling her purse from a cabinet, glancing to Finch. Hands shaking, just slightly. Her eyes went back to the doorway, meeting Reese's gaze. A question.

"He's fine," he said. "I just… encouraged him to take a walk. Nice night." A wry, twitch of a smile.

Lewis had taken off, but not before slamming him into the corner of a metal filing cabinet. Reese rolled his shoulders slightly and straightened his back at the lingering ache, hands at his sides.

"Thanks." Giving him a wary look. Monica was clearly uncomfortable, off kilter from the whole event. A trembling hand tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "I just… I'm sorry." She let out a breath. To Reese now. "My son, I have to-"

He waved away the apology. "Go," he said softly.

"Monica," Finch tried. She stopped, looking back to him. "If you don't feel safe... Please, consider what I said."

She nodded at Finch's words but it was without meaning, her eyes darting between them as she left.

A silence. There was a hum as an air conditioning unit switched on.

"Thank you," Finch said finally, glancing to Reese. He straightened his tie, tucking it neatly into his vest. Adjusting his glasses.

Reese eyed him silently. Was he favoring a different stance? He seemed to be moving slowly.

Finch saw the blue eyes cataloging. "I'm fine." He adjusted his glasses again. Noticed something himself. "But you are-"

"Fine." Reese blocked the hand that was coming at his chin to angle him for a better view. He had felt something warm at his temple, apparently he _was_ bleeding. He gave Finch a pointed look, stepping back. "What were you doing, Finch?"

A hard stare.

"I'm fine," Reese repeated. His voice carried a hint of annoyance. He saw the way his employer's mouth tightened. "Successful intervention, Finch?" He didn't wait for an answer. "What if you-"

"I realize the _what if_ , Mr. Reese. Not ideal timing on my part." Finch gazed at the disarray of the clinic. There was a pause. "And Mr. Lewis?"

"Not very sportsmanlike." Reese touched his temple now that Finch's gaze was elsewhere, stepping back again. Wiping the blood on his pants. He righted an overturned chair. "I put a tracker on him."

_And told him not to go home._

Finch turned and watched him. "Have you spoken with Detective Carter?"

Reese squatted down by a small overturned pail of trash, shoveling papers back into it. A wrapper. A styrofoam coffee cup. Three Doritos.

"I take that as a no?"

Reese squinted up at him, setting the can upright. "Not yet." There would be no need to talk to Carter. He eyed Finch, the shift in his walk. He was moving differently for sure. "You sure you're alright, Finch?"

An arched brow. "Asks the one bleeding."

"Finch."

A stare.

Fine then.

They were both fine.

Reese got to his feet, pulling out his phone. Moving to the doorway. He hung there a moment, glanced back at Finch.

"You could take advantage, Harold. While you're here?" He gestured with his hand. "No waiting, no time limits?"

He slipped through the doorway, not waiting to hear the response.

* * *

It was humid later, the air heavy. Reese had settled into a crook of the roof, eyes on the Lewis residence. He had long since taken off his suit jacket, balling it up and wedging it behind him as a cushion.

Finch would likely be appalled at his blatant disrespect for the expensive threads. The man was fondly amusing, for all his particularities.

He probably had a ledger somewhere, cataloging the number of ruined garments to date. John Reese: 4, Armani: 0. John Reese: 2, Brioni: 0. Seeing Finch's expression range anywhere from vague annoyance to abject horror at their final resting states, Reese had started airing their states of retirement outside the Library's walls. Sparing the man.

It was Finch's fault anyway, buying expensive clothing.

One could argue that his employer's range of response might have been scaled according to the degree of bodily harm involved, but Reese couldn't be certain.

Suit abuse aside, a night on a rooftop was nearing preferable to the cheap mattress he was avoiding at his hotel of the week.

Never mind the room's paper thin walls.

And the dreams.

Reese was no stranger to sleep deprivation. He knew his limits. In the military, it was a right of passage. And if sleep were off the table, he might as well get some fresh air.

He glanced at his phone. Looked back across the street.

As he had planned, Monica and Frankie were alone tonight. They ordered pizza for dinner. Half cheese, half pepperoni.

Frankie liked to peel the cheese off and eat the pepperoni separately. He also liked to move around. A lot. A five year old's dinner version of musical chairs.

Reese smiled slightly as Monica pointed sternly to the child's original chair and told him to finish his dinner. Again.

It was at least the third time.

His phone buzzed, he glanced down and tapped his com.

"Lionel."

" _You guys getting into the art business?_ "

Reese paused. "What?"

" _Glasses was checking out space rentals earlier. The gallery type._ " Fusco sounded smug. He enjoyed this a little too much, when he could sniff out truffles of information Reese hadn't yet found.

Reese couldn't let it get to him. He was the one asking the detective to spy on his boss in the first place.

"Huh," he said finally. So Finch was buying art galleries now, not just visiting them.

" _Yeah. Huh_."

Couldn't give him too much satisfaction. "Got an address yet?"

" _Which one? He looked at three._ "

"Not the galleries, Lionel."

There was a pause.

" _Nothing is good enough for you, is it?"_

Reese smiled to himself.

" _Yeah, yeah. You're welcome. And no. No address yet._ "

"Keep me posted."

A grunted goodbye.

It was quiet then. Some pigeons landed on the rooftop next to his. Reese shifted his legs.

Rental spaces.

The classifieds this morning, likely the real estate section.

_Not everything is a puzzle piece, Mr. Reese._

Yeah right, Finch.

Something to do with the other magazine, maybe. The art on the cover.

Reese reminded himself to check the recycling later. Unlikely, but worth a shot.

He rubbed a hand down his face. Across the way, dinner was still progressing.

He closed his eyes.

He didn't mean to.

_In the recent dream she's sleeping, her long blonde hair splayed over the pillow. He wakes next to her. Breathing her._

_He can feel her heart beating. Or perhaps it's his._

_She stirs and he mouths at the back of her neck. Her shoulder._

_She rolls over. That smile._

_He smiles back. A whisper. "Are you real?"_

_She laughs. Giving him that look. The fond, "you're ridiculous" look._

_He bites her shoulder again, gently, and her hands are on him._

_She's definitely real._

_In the recent dream it changes, suddenly, and there's blood. On the pillow. Blood on his hands. In her hair._

_When he says her name, it's a desperate plea: "_ Jess _."_

Reese opened his eyes, cursing under his breath. He shifted on the ledge, eyeing the scene across the street.

He blinked. Still dinner.

He glanced at his hands, spreading out his fingers. Clenching them into fists.

The pigeons fluttered and cooed.

After dinner, bath time.

He glanced at his phone, tempted to ping Finch. _Running any personal errands, Finch? No? Me? Oh, just hanging with some pigeons. Some birds like my company._

Across the way the bath was drawn. Monica wrangled her son, he giggled as she caught him. Pulling his polo over his head.

Reese stiffened. A familiar brick sank in his gut.

Bruises, peppering the child's back. Monica traced a gentle finger down his spine and Frankie twisted with a laugh.

Reese dialed a quick number.

Carter skipped the pleasantries. " _There better not be a body, John_."

"No body yet," he said, keeping his tone light.

" _Good start._ " He could hear the smile in her voice.

"That guy Lewis you were following up on. How long has he been back?"

A pause. " _A couple months. Why?_ "

"He going back?"

" _No. Active duty's done_."

"Thanks."

" _John-_ "

He ended the call. Stretched his legs out, cracked his neck.

The night was young after all. He hesitated, then hit his com.

"Finch? You there?" He drummed his fingers on the ledge in the seconds that passed.

" _Always_."

The sound of typing, familiar. Soft.

He wasn't sure why he called, suddenly. Was it for permission? Finch's blessing?

He rubbed a hand across his mouth.

" _Mr. Reese?_ "

"Spoke with Carter," he said finally, which was not untrue.

" _Excellent._ " There was the quick tapping sound of the keyboard. A pause. " _It seems Mr. Lewis is keeping his distance from the family tonight."_

Reese's eyes traveled back to the brownstone.

Across the street, Monica and Frankie seemed happy. Relaxed. On a vacation from the monster.

He could remember it all too well.

All vacations came to an end, eventually.

"I'm taking care of it," he said softly.

There was a pause. " _I beg your pardon_?"

"Lewis. It's done."

" _Mr. Reese?_ "

He shouldn't have called.

" _John_."

"Sorry, Finch." He pulled his suit jacket out from behind him, shrugging it back on. "I'll see you in the morning."

He tapped to end the call, rising from the ledge.

There were people the world could afford to lose.

* * *

It rained.

He waited, through the night.

Followed, trailing him slowly. No set timeline.

Anthony Lewis left the recruiting office, visited a quiet pub just two blocks from home.

Reese swallowed two fingers of whiskey, eyes lowered. Watching Lewis the entire time.

Deciding.

By the time he had slammed the trunk of the car closed, Lewis' bound body resting within it, he had made his decision.

There was no going back.

In his ear: " _Mr. Reese_."

He closed his eyes.

When he opened them, he was still staring at the man strung up before him, blindfolded and gagged.

He felt nothing.

"Finch." He stepped from the room.

" _Where are you?"_

The sound of rain on the windows.

He was at a safe house. It was ironic, really. He listened to the muffled sounds of struggle behind him and closed the door.

" _John."_

There was a gentleness in the way Finch said his name and Reese leaned his head back against the wall.

He didn't deserve gentleness.

Not right now.

"Look," he began.

" _No_."

The interruption was firm.

" _You can make it here in twelve minutes_. _I'll give you fifteen_."

Reese lowered his gaze, staring hard at the wall. Heard the desperate, strangled noises from the other room.

There were things that had to be done sometimes.

It wasn't wrong.

"Finch."

" _I'll only say it once, John_."

The line disconnected.


	7. Chapter 7

"Sit."

The word hit him like a slap.

In some ways Reese imagined it would be better if Finch did just hit him. That look on his face, the mixture of doubt and annoyance and concern. And something else.

It was worse.

He sat.

It was silent in the Library. Even the clicking of the keyboard missing, a constant when Finch was there. Its absence was off-putting. The street seemed to be in on it, subduing the sounds of traffic and city noise.

Reese closed his eyes, rubbed a hand down his face.

Finch watched him. "Something you'd like to tell me?"

"Not particularly." Reese leaned forward, propping his arms on his knees. Let his head drop, dragged fingers through his hair.

"John."

"Harold." He lifted his head.

A barely perceptible frown. "Where is Mr. Lewis?"

"He's at the safe house." Reese's face was a mask of trained blankness, a tone to match.

He had left Lewis, bound and silently screaming.

He was okay drawing things out.

"John." Finch sounded weary. His face, a flicker of a question he didn't want to ask.

"Don't, Finch."

Sometimes things had to be done, things ordinary people shouldn't have to see. Or think about.

Things people like Finch shouldn't have to even know about.

"What have you done?"

"Nothing." Reese's voice was soft. Measured.

Finch studied him. He had watched John Reese long before they had met. Knew he was a good man, despite things he had done. In _spite_ of things he had done. Had come to learn he had underestimated him, if anything.

This. This was different.

They stared at each other a minute. Reese started to stand.

"Sit," Finch said sharply.

A look. Reese ignored the abrupt command. Moving toward the window.

A hollow hum clicked in from the air system.

"Do you sleep?" Reese asked. The street below was quiet, in a slumber of its own. He glanced back at the silence.

Finch was frowning. The desktop threw a pool of light around him but his face was partly shadowed. He looked worried, that pinched look he got when there was no clear string of code to fix something.

He could lie, Reese thought. Protect Finch from the harsh realities of what they had undertaken. The need to sacrifice one to protect many. The unwritten code.

To be fair, he could omit the truth. Isn't that what Finch did all the time?

In the manner of personal errands and real estate acquisitions.

After a beat of silence: "We won't have to talk about it."

"Yes, Mr. Reese, I imagine I called you here so that we might _not_ talk about it."

Reese rubbed a palm down the side of his face, across his mouth. Watching Finch watch him.

He should have never called.

Looking back to the window, absently slipping his com bud out of his ear. Rolling it between his thumb and forefinger.

He thought back to Frankie and felt a little nauseous. Remembering the old games. _Hide, John_. The desperation in her voice. _Hide._

He had never been big on hiding.

"The Machine doesn't put us in the business of taking lives, Mr. Reese."

Reese turned. "It happens, Finch."

"It doesn't _happen_. It's premeditated."

Reese gave a sad smile. "You forget, Harold. That's exactly what I'm trained to do."

"I don't forget." Finch tilted his head slightly. Regarding him with a frown. "But it's not what I hired you for."

"You hired me to do what you can't."

"I hired you to stop violent crimes… Not add to them."

Reese held the stare, but something inside of him fluttered. "Let's call it a personal errand then," he said.

"John." A warning. There was a tightening around Finch's mouth now. Running the option strings through his mind, thinking of a way to manage. To manage Reese, who was usually more malleable. Stubborn, yes, but malleable.

They had been at the numbers together for awhile now. Perhaps it was unrealistic, their ceaseless response to each and every case.

But was there a choice?

"We've never discussed time off," he said finally, and the look he got in response was one of disappointment.

"Finch…" Reese shook his head. Time off? As though his decisions were the result of fatigue, of burning out. "I'll tell you when I want time off."

"And when you _need_ time off?"

"I'll tell you." Softly.

Finch stared back, unmoved. He said nothing, drumming his fingers along the edge of the keyboard.

"Maybe _you_ need time off, Finch."

He wasn't the one distracted, hardly invested in resolving the case. He could tell Finch didn't like that. His eyes flickered to the mix of screens, a tiny slip, but Reese saw it.

The numbers never stopped coming.

"There are other ways. A restraining order, perhaps. Therapy. If you do this-"

"He's hurting the kid, Finch."

Ah. Finch blinked.

There was a long pause.

Reese rolled the ear com between his fingers, waiting.

Exactly.

He moved away from the window, approaching the desk.

"You're not part of it, and that's okay." Voice soft and even, a matter-of-fact cadence. "You don't have to be." He dropped the com on the tabletop. Slipped his phone from his pocket, relinquishing that as well.

The message was simple.

"What are you proposing to do?"

Reese hung there a second. Gave a small twitch of a smile, no light of it in his eyes. _Sorry_. "I'll call you tomorrow."

"Mr. Reese."

"You're a good person, Harold. Just know, this is right."

There was no point in continuing. He walked to the hall.

When the gate closed, its clatter jarred the silence. For a minute, Finch sat with his head bowed. His thumbs rubbed circles at his temples.

He glanced at the abandoned phone, sliding it forward. Leaning back in his chair and staring at the screen.

The blinking cursor on the middle monitor stared back.

His fingers landed on the keys.

* * *

_A misplaced step, the knocking over of a neatly poured tumbler._

"John _."_

_It works, the well-aimed distraction. He is not, by nature, a clumsy child._

_He balls his fists tightly at his sides, ready to fight. Anything to get the attention away from her._

" _C'mere, John."_

_He shuts his eyes._

* * *

It was easy, at one time. When the kill order came in his ear, the decision already made.

When Kara would tell him it was right, and even if it weren't, it was someone else's call.

"I'm sorry," Lewis had begged.

"So am I," Reese had said. Not without regret, though little of it bled into his tone.

Such was the way of the world.

The apartment was small. He was dragging Lewis' unconscious form into the main room when the sound of a key in the lock hit his ear.

He dropped the body, an unceremonious thud, and raised his firearm as the door creaked open.

It was morning now, albeit early. Enough time had been lost. He blinked as the sunlight forced itself in, surrounding the two figures like a halo.

They stared back at him and he slowly lowered his weapon.

It was Fusco who spoke first.

"Seriously?"

This wasn't what he had expected, when he called Reese's phone that morning. Getting Mr. Happy's boss instead, that was the first surprise.

_Wonderful, Detective, I could use your assistance actually._

The long-suffering look from Reese now. The man in the suit, sans suit jacket, sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Stubble and shadows, not a hint of playfulness in his eyes.

And the body at his feet. Fusco stared down at the unconscious form, releasing a silent sigh.

Seriously?

Reese's hardened stare was for Finch alone now and for a second Fusco decided he would wash his hands of whatever this was. Hang up his badge on this one, whatever the two of them had going on.

But then, the sirens in the distance.

"Oh good," Finch said, and both pairs of eyes shot to him. As explanation: "Your backup."

From Reese, a tilt of the head. A setting of the jaw.

"You'll need to be leaving," Finch told him, hardly stepping in the doorway. His eyes avoided the form of Lewis on the carpet, locking onto the stare instead. "As will I."

Still silent, Reese's fingers unconsciously tightened on the pistol still in his grip.

"I know you think this is right." Though spoken softly, Finch's words were deliberate. He held Reese's eye. "And maybe it is. But I ... cannot."

The siren grew louder. Reese glanced at the body at his feet. Something in his chest tightened. Clenched.

There wouldn't be time.

A part of him felt a sense of relief. The other part-

"Seriously?" Fusco repeated. He looked between them. Back and forth, eyebrows raised.

Finch glanced to him. Methodically: "I managed to spoof the NYPD database, Detective. Mr. Lewis received a DUI yesterday evening, but resisted arrest and managed to make it past the officer. _Thankfully_ , the owner of this property called in reports of a drunken intruder." A pause. "I think you'll find the BOLO quite convincing."

Two sets of eyes stared at him.

"Forty-eight to seventy-two hours detainment, correct?"

Fusco blinked. _What the hell?_ "Uh. Yeah."

"Excellent." Finch stepped unevenly from the doorway. A look to Reese. He'd thought it through only so far, taking a risk on the rest.

A couple of risks.

The siren sounded close. One block over, at most.

Fusco moved closer, squatting by the body. Checking for a pulse.

"He's alive," Reese said, speaking for the first time. His voice was flat.

"John."

There was a long, painful pause.

A car door slammed outside.

Fusco looked up. "If you're gonna go, now would be the time."

Finch glanced to Reese, opened his mouth to say something. He didn't get a word out before the ex-op slipped past him. Nothing more than a breeze.

He didn't attempt to follow.

As he made his own exit from the building, moving slowly, two uniforms streamed around him without a second glance.

Outside, he blinked in the sunlight and made his way up the street. Slowly, stiffly. A heaviness still in his chest.

Risk one, abated.

* * *

The crowd at Duff's was not the same mid-day. Empty pool tables, a single older gentleman eating his lunch at the side of the bar.

Jeremy froze mid-pour as Reese came through the door. Face stony, his hands flat on the bar top as the suited "detective" took a seat on the barstool directly in front of his post.

Evenly. "Jeremy."

"Detective…"

Reese let the sarcasm slide over him.

Jeremy kept him in sight as he delivered a pint to the one patron. Resuming his spot, he gave Reese a hard look.

"Look, unless you're here to to drink-"

"I came to say I'm sorry."

A stare. Jeremy shook his head in disbelief at the words. Who was this guy?

A beat.

Softly. "I was trying to protect Monica and Frankie. I thought you…" Reese paused. "I had it wrong."

Jeremy tilted his head. "How do you even know Monica?"

"I don't," Reese said, after a slight hesitation.

"Then why would you even… How did you even know?"

A pause. "A good source."

"A good source," Jeremy repeated. He studied Reese, a harrowed version of the man who had tried to detain him just the other day. "Who are you?"

Reese blinked. Good question.

He wasn't very sure about that anymore.

"Someone who doesn't like bullies," he said finally.

Jeremy gave a nod. It didn't answer the question, but he knew it was the truth. He pulled a washed glass from the sink, setting it on a drying rack. Wiping his hands on a cloth.

Reese rubbed the side of his face. "Anyway. Not sure how much help we were with the whole situation." His eyes went past Jeremy then. To the taps.

Maybe one beer.

"Are you…" Jeremy shook his head. "Monica texted me earlier. Apparently Anthony is getting shipped out again. In just a few days."

Reese frowned, his eyes back to Jeremy. What?

"Yeah." Jeremy smirked. "So, uh, if you had anything to do with that… Thanks."

Reese felt something twist in his stomach.

Finch. Had to be.

Apparently the NYPD wasn't the only database he had spoofed.

He shook his head.

"Glad it worked out."

Jeremy pulled two tumblers down from the rack of glasses and set the pair between them. Pulled a bottle of whiskey from the collection.

"I'll drink to that."

Reese hesitated, a microsecond. Accepted the drink, clinking the glass against Jeremy's proffered toast.

They swallowed the liquor and there was a pause.

"Thank you," Jeremy said finally, and Reese shook his head at the words.

"I'm John," he said, holding out his hand.

Jeremy smiled, accepting the handshake. "Jeremy." He nodded to their glasses. "Another?"

Reese pushed his tumbler forward.

Why not.

* * *

Later. Past the main desk, barely glancing at the glowing screens. The images pinned to the cracked glass board.

Running his fingers along spines as he slowly walked, deeper into the recesses, and then stopped.

There was dust on the shelves here, and it was good enough.

Back against the wall, Reese closed his eyes. Sinking, slowly. Hands clasped behind his neck.

Time passed. A humming in his head. Something spinning.

The sound of the gate. Reese opened his eyes, staring at a moted sunbeam. The floating particles of dust.

He heard the familiar gait, a dull thud of something dropping on the desk. A hesitation.

Finch would know he was here.

Seconds passed, traced by the even throb of the heart in his chest.

There was a clearing of a throat. A chair sliding back.

Seconds passed.

Then minutes.

Reese closed his eyes.


	8. Chapter 8

He didn't know when he fell asleep, or for how long. A foot was nudging him and when he opened his eyes, the sun was setting in the nearest window.

"Mr. Reese."

He squinted up at his employer, stretching his legs out. He said nothing.

Finch watched him. The low sun silhouetting his form.

Waiting.

He wasn't going anywhere.

"Harold," Reese said finally.

A tilt of the head, a more scrutinous look. "Have you been drinking?"

Reese shook his head. Then gave a noncommittal shrug.

Somewhere in there.

He readied himself for it, seeing the tightened look, but the expression on Finch's face changed.

"Have you eaten?"

He didn't answer. Feeling suddenly tired, shutting his eyes. The foot nudged him again, less gently than before.

"Finch," he complained, opening his eyes.

Finch looked unfazed.

Reese gave him an irritated look.

"It's late, Mr. Reese. You can't sleep here."

He had. On more than one occasion. But surely Finch was aware of that.

"I'm just resting."

An arched eyebrow.

Reese pulled a leg up, but stayed seated. "Have _you_ eaten?"

"I have not." A pause. Finch watched him carefully. The gaze was hard at first, but then it softened. "I don't suppose you'd wish to join me?"

Reese blinked at him.

"Italian?" Finch offered. Something hearty. The blue eyes staring back were a little glassy.

"Italian?" An echo.

"There's a place I frequent."

Reese tilted his head, curious now. Frequent. Meaning, goes often.

A olive branch of sorts.

He would take it.

* * *

The waitress brought a bottle of wine without any request, poured them each a small glass.

There had been a wait, or so it seemed, but not for them. A table open in the back, tucked away from the activity at the other end of the restaurant.

"The usual, Mr. Wren?" She smiled at him, then glanced at Reese. A curious expression, a more flirtatious smile.

He was oblivious to it.

Her eyes went back to Finch.

Finch nodded, returning the smile with a thinly pressed version. "Thank you, Katie."

When she left, Reese reached for the bottle, topping his glass off. He went to do the same to the other but Finch held his hand out over it.

"Easy," he said gently.

Reese went to pour in his own glass again, but it was already full.

Finch took the bottle from him, set it to the side. Pushed the basket of bread forward.

He hoped dinner out had been a smart decision.

Reese saw he was being watched. Gave him a curious look. "You come here a lot, Finch?"

"Harold," Finch corrected softly. "Or Mr. Wren. While we're here."

Reese frowned at that. "You come here a lot, Finch?"

A stare.

A minute ticked by.

Finally, "Harold."

"I do."

"You do." A beat. Filing it away. Wheels turning. "Did you have a reservation?

"No."

Reese tilted his head slightly. No reservation. Immediate service. "You live nearby?"

"Nearby," Finch allowed.

"You live on this block." A cajoling smile.

Finch met the smile with an even expression, finished with answers.

"Not this block," Reese concluded. "Up a block. Over?" Motioning with his hand, an unknown direction. Finch looked amused now.

"Your interrogation skills are somewhat less impressive when you're intoxicated, Mr. Reese."

"I'm not intoxicated."

Finch raised his eyebrows.

Reese was quiet then, leaning back in the cushioned booth. His shirt was loose around his neck, one too many buttons undone for the current establishment.

His expression was placid as he looked at his hands, spreading his fingers. He expected to see blood on them.

They were clean.

He closed his eyes a second, but felt a slight spin in the darkness. He opened them.

Looking up. Finch was watching him.

"What do you do when you're not at the Library, Finch?"

The waitress was back already, she slid a massive plate of food in front of him. A second in front of Finch.

"Can I get you anything else right now?" She looked at Reese first, he gave her a small smile this time and she quickly returned it.

Finch cleared his throat. "Thank you, Katie."

Katie turned back to him, a sheepish look. Wiping her hands on her black apron. "Enjoy, Mr. Wren. I'll check back in a bit."

Finch unrolled his napkin as Reese stared at the generous food portion.

Finch: "Chicken parm." As though the dish needed explanation.

"We never ordered." Reese raised his eyebrows at Finch, who raised his own in return.

"Wednesday night," Finch said. "House special."

Looking around the dining area. "Do you own this place too?"

Finch gave him a look.

"Do you come here every Wednesday?"

"Eat."

Reese held the stare, taking sip of wine. Setting down the glass.

Finch shook his head, starting on his own plate.

No, he didn't own it, Reese concluded. He unrolled his napkin, picking up his fork. Looked back to Finch, who was glancing at his phone.

He allowed a moment to pass. Contemplating the food in front of him.

Contemplating what he was doing there.

Looking back to Finch.

"Did you buy the art gallery?"

Finch looked up.

Reese noted the frown. At the silence: "You looked at three galleries yesterday."

Finch blinked behind his glasses. "You ask a lot of questions, Mr. Reese."

For a moment, Reese thought that would be his answer.

Then, "Four."

"What?"

"I looked at four."

 _Dammit, Fusco_.

"But to answer your question. Yes."

Reese frowned. Took a swallow from his wineglass.

"Why?"

Katie was back. "Another bottle?"

"Yes," Reese said, just as Finch replied, "No. Thank you."

They exchanged a look. A raised brow from Reese.

"It doesn't have to be wine," he said.

A stare.

Finch tilted his head, a slight narrowing of his eyes. He looked back to Katie. "We're fine," he said. "Thank you."

She smiled, stealing another glance at Reese. He winked at her, then looked back to Finch, who was giving him a hard look.

Clinking utensils. For the next few moments, no words were exchanged.

Reese scanned the room every few minutes. Cataloging.

Finch had chosen this booth, years ago, for exactly that reason. The ability to see one's surroundings while remaining hidden. An ideal perch.

He watched Reese. The languid expression, a certain induced relaxation.

He had little doubt, despite the alcohol, if he were to blindfold Reese then and there, the ex-operative would be able to recite the inhabitants at each and every table. Perhaps their dinner orders, their drink of choice.

His phone buzzed.

Glancing down. Swiping up.

Skimming the lines of text, Finch couldn't help the tiny smile that graced his face.

She had accepted.

A glance in Reese's direction, he typed a quick reply to the email. Forwarded the contract that would secure Grace Hendricks' spot in the studio's featured collection.

It was bittersweet, this greyer shade of happiness.

The closest he might get.

He wished he could see her expression. Her charming, uncertain smile. Would she laugh?

At the familiar tug, deep in his chest, Finch put a stop to his thoughts, pressing his lips together in a thin line. Slipping the phone back into his vest.

He steepled his fingers together, then pressed them flat on the table. Shifting his back, the painful twinge affording him a rigid posture. It bullied away the other pang.

Reese was watching him now. A curious look.

Finch met the gaze. "Mr. Reese."

Having noted Finch's clenched jaw and stiffened demeanor, Reese leaned his own back against the booth's cushion. Ready for it.

He felt dulled. Comfortable dulled.

He felt very little anything.

"Earlier," Finch said. "You said I was a 'good person'."

Brow furrowed, Reese stared back at him.

Finch waited.

He seemed to be expecting an answer.

"You are." Slowly. Uncertain to the point being made.

"Were you insinuating that you are not?"

Another pause, a frown. Then a small, wistful twitch at the corner of his mouth. "Finch."

He was awarded a raised eyebrow.

Reese rubbed a hand across his mouth.

There was a time he had thought himself a good person.

Softly. "Have you ever killed anyone?"

"Not deliberately," Finch said, after a pause.

Reese tilted his head.

Interesting.

Finch's eyes examined him. "Would you have enjoyed it?"

The way he questioned, he wasn't truly asking.

He knew the answer.

"No."

He would not have enjoyed killing Lewis. And Finch knew it.

"Doesn't mean you should have stopped me."

"I see."

"You should trust me."

"I trust you implicitly, Mr. Reese."

Reese held the gaze, then blinked.

Right.

He took a sip of his wine, looking across the dining room.

Implicitly.

"He's going back, you realize," Finch said.

"I realize."

The tone was flat, no indication of whether the solution were acceptable to him or not.

"It wasn't about trust, John."

A silence settled in. Reese took a piece of bread, ripping it in half.

The morning seemed a distant dream.

At the table nearest to them, a woman was laughing. It was a forced laugh, she didn't find the man across from her funny. But she loved him.

Reese closed his eyes, welcoming the spin this time.

When he opened them, the room seemed sharper, slower.

He looked back to Finch, who happened to be the most difficult person to read in the room. He took a swallow of his wine and the words just came.

"My father did four tours in Vietnam."

The sound of dim chatter and clicking utensils from the other tables.

"The war hero." There was a hint of bitterness in the soft way Reese spoke. "He drank a lot. In-between. When he got back."

Finch's face had a barely perceptible frown, hidden by a sip from his own glass. He knew next to nothing regarding his partner's primary years, but his stomach twisted slightly at the insinuation of the next words.

"I hid too, at first." Reese tore the halves of bread into quarters. Eighths. "But he wasn't after me."

He had been small then. Unable to protect her. Or himself. But he had tried.

Reese stopped then, looking up from the bread plate to Finch. Something crossed his face, a flicker and gone.

He'd gotten into a lot of fights back then. Throughout the years. Carrying that protection from home, to school. To his peers.

Trying.

He rubbed a palm down his cheek, swallowed the remainder of his glass.

Finch was somber.

A minute ticked by.

"Thought you knew everything about me."

Finch was watching him. "I'm sorry."

He said it gently and Reese looked away. The familiar mask back in place, his hand rubbing across his mouth. His head felt heavy as he surveyed the dimly lit dining area.

He wasn't sure, suddenly, if it was the best place for him to be.

"Thanks for dinner," he said, laying his palms on the tabletop. Moving to make an exit.

He'd had just enough, he might be able to sleep in peace.

"It was for a friend," Finch said, and Reese paused then, half in the booth, half out.

A questioning look.

"You asked about the gallery earlier. I bought it for a friend." Finch was choosing his words carefully. "A dear, old friend."

Reese stared at him a second and then sank back into his seat. Pulling his hands down from the tabletop, laying them flat on the tops of his thighs.

A friend.

He wanted to, hearing something else in Finch's words, but he didn't ask.

"I recognize," Finch continued, "that I may not be the most… forthcoming, when it comes to myself." He paused, holding Reese's gaze.

Reese didn't blink.

"Please don't take it personally."

The woman's laughter behind them, muffled.

"I trust you, Harold."

The truth was, for the little he knew about Harold Finch, he trusted him more than he had anyone else.

"Good." Finch gave a brief smile and then set something between them. "You'll be needing this then."

Reese felt a shift inside of him as the phone was set gently on the table. He stared at it for a moment, raised his eyes to meet Finch's.

The gaze in return was serious.

"I'd prefer you hold on to that next time." A raised brow.

An underlying meaning.

Reese held the stare and then reached for the phone.

"So I still have a job."

"If you want it."

 _I need it._ Reese gave him a small smile, shifting in his seat again to leave.

"Mr. Reese."

He twisted back slowly as Finch slid something else across the table, releasing it with a tap.

Reese looked down.

A keycard.

He looked up. Another question on his face.

"What do you do with the money I pay you, John?"

A blank stare.

Finch saw the incomprehension. "Your choice of hotel hasn't even had hot water for three days."

And that was the least of his findings.

Reese smiled then. It was a silly smile, likely loosened by the alcohol.

"Are you keeping tabs on me, Harold?"

"Not enough, apparently."

Reese reached forward and slid the keycard toward himself, slowly, noting the name of the upper echelon hotel inscribed upon it.

"Room 301," Finch said.

Reese gave him a look but slipped it into a pocket, next to the phone.

A good night's sleep and a hot shower sounded pretty good.

He hung a second, debating. Opened his mouth, then stopped.

Finch watched him. "Goodnight, Mr. Reese."

Later, he found the minibar of Room 301 stocked with nothing but water and Gatorade, a freshly pressed suit hanging in the closet.

He looked around the subdued luxury of the suite. Quiet. Clean. A king sized bed, more pillows than his last four hotel stays combined.

He shook his head slightly.

It took him a minute, standing there, to realize the silence of the demons in his head. He waited, ready to push them back. To try the hotel bar downstairs if the current buzz wasn't enough.

They stayed quiet, and for once he wasn't certain it was the alcohol's doing.

He sank face first into the fluffy white comforter, not even bothering to remove his shoes.

* * *

Thursday morning was crisp but sunny, warm in the resting breeze. Birds chirping, a lingering hold on autumn's remaining days.

There were puddles from the previous day's rain and Frankie splashed in them with a five-year-old's fury. He looked back at Monica, flicked with mud and water, a grin on his face. Running ahead into the woodchipped area of the playground.

Watching from a distance, Finch observed the scene with the warmth of the sun on his back. A slight upturn to the corner of his mouth.

Earlier that morning, Monica had smiled at his use of her own words.

"I can help," he had said, "but at the end of the day it's up to you to make the change."

He kept his gaze on the playground as Jeremy moved in next to her, the two of them watching their son together. She called the boy back after a minute, and he trotted over to her, slowing at the sight of the man at her side. Eyeing his father shyly.

Jeremy squatted down and after some moments of exchange, Frankie was smiling. Laughing.

It seemed Monica had started to make that change already.

"What about you?" she had asked. "Are you going to continue therapy?"

He had hesitated, and she had smiled, not pressing it.

"My practice is always open," she said. Adding, "It's never too late."

He watched them, the cautious but comfortable interactions, the unbridled happiness from Frankie. Monkey bars and trapeze rings.

For some, it wasn't too late.

There was a presence next to him then, an intentional brush of a shoulder.

"Finch."

He shifted, pivoting in his direction. "Mr. Reese."

Upon first glance, he looked more rested. Clean-shaven, a coffee in hand. His eyes were focused in the distance, locked on the playground.

Still a hint of something in the set of his jaw.

Gaze staying ahead, Reese held out a second cup, the scent of Sencha green wafting through its plastic lid.

They stood there a minute, in silence. A peal of giggles from Frankie, as Jeremy grabbed him under his arms, lifting him to his shoulders. Laughter from Monica.

"We have a new number," Finch said finally, shifting to look at Reese.

He didn't miss the flicker of relief in the profile. The attention shifting away from the play area. A slight breeze rustled the leaves at the edge of the park as they fell into step, heading in the direction of the Library.

Finch spoke first as they waited for traffic to change at the corner.

"I never asked, what did you think of the Cattelan exhibit?"

"It looked like someone's nightmare," Reese said absently.

He froze then, realizing his slip.

 _Damn_.

Finch's eyebrows climbed as he shifted sideways with his gaze, catching Reese's eye.

A delivery bike chimed its bell as it made a turn against traffic.

"I see," Finch said, stepping off the curb as the signal changed.

Reese paused, and then followed.

Finch was teasing him.

Mildly: "And who were _you_ following, Harold?"

A side eye.

"I see," Reese said in turn.

He was rewarded with an amused look.

Little by little.

Back in the Library, a calmness settled over him as he stood behind Finch's chair and listened to the background of their newest number.

There were books piled across the tabletop, newly pulled volumes with dust in their bindings. He eyed them as he sipped his coffee.

The magazine and its gently sketched cover were absent. Hidden. He scanned the disorganization of the room briefly without finding it.

"John."

"Mm."

Attention back to the screen, to Finch. The eyes behind the glasses studied him.

"You alright?"

They both walked circles around this question, time in and time again.

But Reese gave a slight nod.

He set his coffee down, slipping one of volumes from the atop the desk as he sank into a chair. "But you, Harold." He swiveled to face Finch, allowing a teasing cadence to enter his voice. "Where are we going to find you another therapist?"

A long look. The book was pulled from his hand before he could open it, an ID badge placed in its stead.

"I'm sure I'll figure out something, Mr. Reese." Finch returned the book to the stack and moved the coffee cup back from his keyboard. A pointed look. "In the meantime, let's worry about you."

Reese glanced down at the laminated card, raising his eyebrows.

Leaning back into the chair.

"I wish I could say this would be a first, Finch."


End file.
